Page 13 of Saving Miss Pratt

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Must you be so dramatic?” Her words came out in a huff.

When he turned to face her, his ankle gave way, and he tumbled to the floor in a heap. Gritting his teeth, he cursed under his breath. He wouldn’t want to offend herdelicatesensibilities.

In his sweetest voice, he appealed to whatever shriveled heart still beat in her chest. “If you could find something I could use as a crutch, I would be most grateful. Something long enough to fit under my arm would be best.”

She stomped off, expressing clearly how his request inconvenienced her, slamming and rattling every movable object in her wake.

While she searched, he crawled over to a table, and grasping it for support, pulled himself back to a standing position, carefully balancing himself on his good foot.

He breathed a grateful sigh when she returned, carrying an actual—albeit crudely made—crutch in her delicate hands.

“I remembered Mr. Thatcher saying he’d fallen once and needed to use this.” She held the piece of wood before him with thumb and forefinger, as if the wood itself might attack her.

He snatched it and placed it underneath his armpit. Rather short, it would be difficult, but for the moment, it was like a shower of blessings.

“Thank you,” he said, mustering as much sincerity as he could. “Shall we explore the kitchen together?”

She rolled her big blue eyes and pursed her mouth.

When he found himself wondering how those rosebud lips would taste, he shook himself back to reality. Sequestered in a cottage during a snowstorm with a single woman courted enough trouble. He didn’t need to add the lure of seduction into the mix.

But oh, those lips . . .

CHAPTER 4—WRANGLING A CHICKEN

Priscilla refused to admit that her own stomach growled. Timothy’s—ugh—had done a sufficient job on its own. She cursed herself for being so foolish as to leave the few carrots and apples in the stable with the horse.

But perhaps they would discover something edible left in the kitchen. Mr. Thatcher had only been dead for two weeks. Surely something remained they could eat. Regardless of what they might find in the kitchen, once feeling had returned to her extremities, she resigned herself to donning her cloak and heading back out to the stable to fetch what she had left behind.

She followed Timothy into the kitchen, watching him hobble on the crutch—gracefully, she reluctantly acknowledged. Her gaze dropped to his backside when the crutch snagged against his coat, drawing the side of it up high enough to expose his well-formed posterior.

“Do you know how to set a trap?”

She froze mid-step.What?Was he implying she was trying to trap him into a compromising situation? “Beg pardon?”

“For game. Rabbits, for example. If we could catch one, we could at least have some meat. And if you would be so kind to fetch the carrots and apples you discovered, we could make a nice rabbit stew.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. “No, but if you explained it, perhaps I could try.” The least she could do was attempt to be useful. The gnawing at her stomach grew uncomfortable.

His moss-green eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “You sound almost . . . willing.”

She hated losing, but at the moment, her empty stomach demanded she give in. “I am. The sooner we can eat and restore our strength, the sooner we can leave this wretched place.”

He nodded and finished hobbling into the kitchen. As he searched the cupboards and sideboard, she followed suit.

“What are we looking for?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as stupid as her question seemed.

“Flour, salt, any spices or seasoning, though I doubt this time of year there’s anything fresh. Perhaps before the man died, he dried some herbs. Also, search for any cooking items, pots, pans, spoons, that type of thing—huzzah!”

Startled by his sudden exclamation, she dropped the pot she’d discovered. It landed with a loudclangon the floor.

“What is it?” she asked, drawing closer to where he stood.

He held some feathery green leaves in his hands. “Herbs.” He brought the shriveled leaves to his nose. “Fennel leaves. We’re in luck. Even if we can’t snare some meat, at least the carrots will have some flavoring.”

Whatever those leaves were, they didn’t look appetizing to her. She returned to searching where she had retrieved the pot and discovered more cookware.

“Flour and salt,” he said from behind her, his voice full of excitement.

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